Dear, Grandad.

I think about you a lot, especially lately. I feel like there's this male figure missing in my life, which I know is you. And I envy those that have their grandads in their lives, and I don't know that they ever really know how lucky they are.

You're the one I'm supposed to come to with my problems, and you're not supposed to say a word. Just sit there like you always did, quiet and reserved, yet I'd know you'd be listening to every word. You'd get up, ask me if I wanted a drink or something, and that would be that. That might seem like such a bizarre, and cold conversation to anybody who didn't know you, but some of the best times in my childhood were when I'd come and visit you and nan, and you would be sat saying nothing, letting me play with your hair, putting in clips and pretending to spray you with perfume.

And more than anything, I want to know what you think. I want to know if you're proud of me, if you think that all my dreams will come true, if I can make them all come true. I want to know you approve of the guys I'm with, to think that they're good enough to be with me, your granddaughter. I want you to see us all now, to see how much we've changed over the years, how Samantha's expecting her first baby, how Matt's going to Thailand in just under two weeks, for two whole months. I want to know what you think of the way Nan is now that you've gone. The day that you died, I think something went out inside of her, too. She's not the same, she lives in misery more than she does love, and joy, and she rarely laughs anymore. I try, I want you to know that. I try and make her laugh, and smile, and when we went Greece together, I think she liked having me there. I go round and just sit with her, watching yet another animal programme when I'd rather be watching Snog, Marry, Avoid, because I like the way she talks all the way through it to me, telling me facts. She talks about you a lot, too. I don't think she talks about anything as avidly, or with as much animation as she does the past, and that's how I know that the pass, the life she spent with you, are the times that made her life here worthwhile. You know, she lights up. And I listen to the same stories, sometimes two, three, maybe four times, and each time I listen, because once she's gone, who do I have to tell me that stuff?

Sometimes I wish that when I walk through her door, that you'd be there, sitting in the same old chair, watching the TV in the same old position; legs bent up on the stool in front. I want to adsorb every single microscopic detail of your face. Why did I never do that before? Why did I never stop still and just look at you?

And I wish you were here for me, too. I'm so angry at the fact you got taken from us before the times when we were independent enough to do these things, like taking you out for lunch, or taking you to see the film you fancy. Or to just be able to go for a walk with you. 

I was just six, maybe seven when you were taken from life, and I don't remember mourning much. I was naive, I guess. Being young enough to pretend that everything was okay when it wasn't. But now, here I am, twenty one years old and missing you more than ever. And I can't lie to myself, and pretend that I don't still miss you, because I do. And I can't comfort myself in the fact that you're up there, looking down on me, because I don't even believe in God. And even if I did, I can't seek comfort in knowing you're somewhere above, looking down on me, because I'm selfish enough to wish you wasn't there, that you'd never gotten sick, and that you were here right now, and I wouldn't be writing this. 

I guess the one thing life has taught me, is that its never fair. The people we love get taken from us, and sick, evil and twisted people around the world live to old ages, when they don't deserve life.

And for that, I'm sorry. 

 I love you, and live with the hope that one day, somehow, I'll see you again . . .

- Lo x